


An Unexpected Proposal

by winterwaltz



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-11-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 07:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4952203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterwaltz/pseuds/winterwaltz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's the best way to shine at your ex's (and boss's) wedding, other than to bring your new (fake!) fiance?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part i

It starts out innocently, with a text:

_Don’t judge, but I RSVP’d that I was bringing a plus one to Alex’s wedding_

Napoleon Solo, mostly egocentric but still mildly human, writes back:

_Darling, if you’d wanted to take me as your date, you should have just asked_

Gaby Teller, who prides herself in her pragmatism and lack of emotional hysteria, puffs out her cheeks in frustration.

_Not funny. Where and how do I find a suitable date in a week?_

She’s not entirely sure why she’s going to Solo, of all people, with this dilemma - Solo, who’s probably never spent a night alone in his life (or with the same person twice in a row). Yet, Gaby isn’t one who has many good friends - much less girl friends - and Solo is as close to a confidante as she’s come.

She’s known Solo since her late teens, when Alex had brought the murderously attractive Texan to his Newport, Rhode Island estate the summer after their freshman year. The two men - who couldn’t be more different in terms of appearance, personalities, or social backgrounds - were teammates on the rugby team at college. Gaby had struck up an easy friendship with Solo, one that now had lasted over a decade.

_You mean someone good enough to show off at your ex-boyfriend’s wedding?_

She huffs at this statement.

Alexander Vinceguerra - the groom-to-be in question - had never been her boyfriend, at least not in technical terms. They’d spent a whirlwind summer together in Italy several years ago, when she’d interned for several months with the country’s top car designers and engineers. The two of them escaped to Lake Como, at his family’s summer home on the weekends, and for the first time in her life she’d contemplated the idea of love.

However, that was a short-lived romance, and once they’d stepped foot back in the States, he’d returned to treating her as the only role she truly served in his life - a company employee.

To be fair, he’s been nothing but cordial to her since, and Gaby has been intimately aware of his much-publicized courting of his now fiancee, Victoria. Given Gaby’s family’s long-standing relationship with his, it only makes sense that Alex would invite her to his own wedding, and she wouldn't have considered missing the event.

The next day, on the way to work, Gaby sees a missed voicemail from Solo on her phone.

_I have an idea…_

She doesn’t return the call until she’s back home, sitting cross-legged on the floor, with a plate out shrimp pad thai (take out, from the cute restaurant two blocks uptown) in her lap. Solo answers on the first ring - highly unusual - as if he’s been itching to talk to her all day.

He lays it out like this:

“There’s a guy at work, an architect, who might fit the bill. Probably too quiet and serious for your taste on a normal basis, but I’m sure you can tolerate him for three days.”

She takes a long sip of her iced tea. “Quiet and serious as in ‘broody and mysterious’ or ‘I have no personality’?”

“Let’s call it a little bit both.”

“What’s his name?”

“Illya Kuryakin.”

“Unusual. What's he like?”

“He’s Russian. Literally, I mean. Rumor has it he was adopted in his teens and then went on to get a full scholarship to college. You know, one of those brilliant, nerdy types with a tragic backstory. I call him Red Peril on the days that hasn’t left his sense of humor at the door.”

Her fork hovers inches from her mouth before she pauses, sets down the next bite. “Wait. Is this the guy who tore apart the bar when your work team lost at trivia?”

Solo chuckles, sounding almost nostalgic as he exclaims, “Oh, I’d forgotten about that. Yes, that was him. Something stupid, a question about a minor character in _War and Peace_. Our boss, Waverly, considered firing him, but Peril’s name is attached to too many projects.”

Gaby hisses between her teeth. “You’re really selling Mr. Kuryakin on all his high points.”

“If it makes you feel any better, most of the women in the company have a running bet on who can be the first to see him naked.”

“I’m surprised you’re not part of the betting pool.”

He _tsks_ her softly. “Don’t assume I’m not.” Solo pauses. “Look, as long as he’s not flipping over tables or breaking computer screens, Peril seems to be an upstanding guy. He’ll make good arm candy for you; just don't say anything incorrect about Russian history.”

She ponders her options, realizes that she doesn’t really have much choice at this eleventh hour. “How are you going to pitch this to him? He’s going to think this is crazy.”

“Are you kidding?” Solo scoffs. “If I can convince the Department of Homeland Security to forgive me for accidentally entering restricted airspace during my flight lesson, I can make Peril believe this is going to be the best weekend of his life.”

 

*

 

The train to New York City groans along at maximum capacity this holiday weekend, with everyone out for one last hurrah at the end of summer. Gaby brings a novel - a silly romance recommended by one of the girls in marketing - to read on the several-hour journey, but she’s too restless to concentrate and instead flips through a magazine she picked up at the Boston station.

She had spent an embarrassing amount of time choosing her clothes for the weekend, which provided a convenient excuse to buy several new dresses and pairs of shoes. For the first meeting, Gaby settles on 'modest but demure' and digs out a pair of gold and black enamel earrings from her dresser.

( _Just to let you know_ , Solo had texted two nights ago, _for someone who doesn’t talk much, Peril generally has plenty to say when it comes to fashion_ )

She meets Solo at the airport, where he’s flying in from Chicago, and waits at the exit with a sheet of printer paper with NAPOLEON written with a marker. His face breaks into a grin when he spots her and he picks her up easily by the waist, spins her in a hug. Gaby silently gloats as the women around her glance at Solo with envious eyes, and she too allows herself a few seconds to remember how he had single-handedly set a new bar for the term “ridiculously attractive”.

She watches, incredulous, as Solo converses with the saleswoman at the rental car office, smile bright and drawl extra-thick, and manages to convince her to upgrade their ‘compact’ vehicle to the ‘luxury sedan’ for no extra fee.

They are, however, cut from similar cloths, and she recognizes that he still carries himself with the leery confidence of someone who did not come from much means but had managed to vault himself into a loftier social circle. It’s been over a year since she’d last seen him, when Alex had taken a generous number of friends to the Lake Como villa - she’d been invited on professional premises, but it didn’t stop her from remembering _what_ they had done and _where_.

Her conversation with Solo, as always, resumes easily - serving them well for the low crawl of traffic as they traverse the length of Long Island. They discuss their own relationships (“no one memorable” on his end, and “two and a half” on hers), recent travel ("Istanbul" they both discover, but in different months), and mostly who they’re most excited to see from his college days (“Do you think Candice is still a trainwreck?” or “I heard Roger is on his third marriage and fifth kid already”).

They settle on a cafe within walking distance from the train station and they indulge in a late brunch to prepare for the weekend. She notices that they both resolutely avoid any mention of her date, though Solo does offer a cheerful, “Ah, he’s landed in New York" when his phone dings on the table.

"There's no going back now, is there?" She groans, flagging down the waitress for a drink.

Her heart thumps awkwardly in her chest as the minutes pass and she imagines a million possible scenarios - they have no chemistry, the middle of Long Island sinks into the ocean and Illya can't make it out to the Hamptons, he doesn't know how to hold a conversation, or Alex knows immediately that their relationship is a farce. She fears that Illya will change his mind at the last moment, hop across the tracks onto the train back to the city, and she'll be forced to spend the weekend as Solo's wing-woman.

She asks Solo about work, where he's in the mergers and acquisitions department, and Solo reveals that his company is in the midst of building a spaceship to send his boss - Alexander Wavery, British and worth billions - up to space.

"Honestly, I'm bored," Gaby confesses. "I've been with the Vinceguerra's my whole life and I feel as if I'm going nowhere with my career. The Vinceguerra's have built a successful empire, but they're so seated in the old traditions."

"You should look into our company," Solo encourages, not for the first time. "Waverly is trying to build up his automotive branch, solar powered and corn based energy, all that environmental stuff. He'd love to have you on our side."

She digs into her salmon benedict. "I'll think about it."

Her breath catches each time the front door opens, the overhead bells chiming with each new customer entering, until - just as she's grown accustomed to the sound - an expectant smile blooms on Solo’s face.

“Peril, good man. You made it.”

A deep, accented voice responds: “Cowboy, I see you’ve found someone else who shares your penchant for alcohol at obscenely early hours.”

Gaby stills for a moment and slowly turns.

She inhales sharply, surprised by his proximity.

He is striking in both his stature (looming nearly a foot over her) and appearance (honey blond hair, parted with exacting precision, and clear blue eyes), and for a brief moment her heart beats faster with both anxiety and excitement.

She swallows, regains her composure. “I didn’t realize four in the afternoon on a Saturday was considered too early.”

He examines the drink in her hand (a peach bellini for the second round) and makes a noise akin to a grunt. His mouth, already set in a disapproving line, dips down further into a frown as his gaze travels further down to her toes.

“ _What_?” She asks, perhaps more testily than she intends.

“Your shoes. They are not flattering on your feet; they make your ankles look fat. I hope you have a better pair for wedding.” He meets her eyes and extends an arm into the small space between them. “Illya Kuryakin.”

His hand swallows hers as she shakes it delicately; his skin is cool and rough under hers. “Gaby Teller. I happen to like these heels; I wear them often to business functions. I’ve gotten quite a few compliments on them.”

He shrugs, unapologetic. “Then your business colleagues also have bad taste. My woman would never wear something like that.”

Her eyes narrow, shoes forgotten, and her words are directed more towards Solo as Gaby hisses, “Why did he call me ‘his woman’, Napoleon?”

Napoleon musters the decency to appear chagrined. “I might have let it slip that Illya was coming as your fiance.”

“Oh no,” Gaby protests, snatching her hand away as if she’s been burned by a hot stove. You must be joking.”

This time Solo rises out of his chair, sets a placating hand on her shoulder. “Now Gaby, would I joke about something like this?”

“ _No_.” She continues to shake her head. “No. We are definitely not engaged.”

“I’m afraid you are,” Solo counters, his voice soothing enough to lull a baby to sleep. “I already told Alex and the gang that you were bringing your fiance. They can’t wait to meet him; Alex was very surprised and very curious about this man you've been hiding beneath his very nose.”

“You have to take it back,” Gaby seethes. “Say that there’s been a mistake. I can’t be engaged to this guy.”

“Why not?”

“Because never in a million years would I - ” She manages to catch herself, fully aware that there can be no kindness in any of the various ways she can finish such a sentence.

Her gaze flit up nervously, afraid of what she might find - Solo has warned her about the Russian’s temper, after all. Yet Illya’s expression is merely curious and pensive, if not - and she swallows guiltily - _hurt_ by her words.

“Never mind,” she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. She mentally counts to five and musters a smile. “What I meant to say is - Solo, that is a terrific idea. Why didn’t I think of something so brilliant?”

“Now that’s the attitude I know and love,” Solo chuckles.

Gaby wills herself not to scream. “I better get a decent ring out of this,” she mutters.

As if on cue, Illya holds up a thin band of metal between his forefinger and thumb.

“I tried my best,” he responds without missing a beat.

He gazes at her expectantly, and with a heavy groan she lifts her left hand again, fingers splayed. She watches as he carefully slides the ring onto her fourth finger, and it’s not until she curls her hand into a fist that she exhales - and realizes she’d been holding her breath all along.

She stares down at the jewel, taken aback by the appearance of a cool dark grey pearl surrounded by a halo of tiny teardrop-shaped diamonds. The stones wink at her under the fluorescent lights and she hums quietly in agreement.

“This will do,” she whispers.

“We are now engaged,” Illya states, tone matter-of-fact. “Congratulations.”

“Excellent,” Solo chimes brightly, clapping a hand on each of his friends’ backs. “Now that the tedious bit is done, I think celebratory drinks are in order.”


	2. part ii

The three of them eat dinner at a restaurant on the bay, with a stunning view of the sunset. Solo easily tucks away a seafood pasta and an old-fashioned. Illya orders a steak and, again, turns down a drink. Gaby skips the food altogether and focuses her appetite on two glasses of white wine.

(If Illya disapproves, he manages to keep those thoughts to himself.)

It’s already dark by the time they arrive at the hotel, with the numbing effects of her prior drinks just beginning to wane. Wordlessly, Illya takes her bags from the trunk, even though he’s already wheeling his own suitcase and carries a large box wrapped in brown parchment paper under one arm.

Gaby considers thanking him but he’s already forged ahead, so instead she pushes her sunglasses atop her head and follows behind the two men.

Solo takes a long while to check in, mostly because he’s too busy distracting the cute, young female receptionist; she erupts into giggles every few minutes, much to Gaby’s exasperation. Solo places an order for a bottle of champagne, and Gaby wonders incredulously if he’s already making plans for the rest of the night.

Then their turn arrives and Gaby blanches. She's forgotten, up until this particular second, about the sleeping situation.

When she had booked the room, months ago, she'd accounted for her ‘plus one’ at the wedding - while hoping that she’d have an actual boyfriend to bring along. Now with this stranger standing next to her at the counter, Gaby can only smile meekly when the receptionist confirms the junior suite with "one king-size bed".

Illya clears his throat beside her and she jabs her elbow into his ribs as she reaches for her wallet.

"Yes, that's correct."

Solo doesn’t bother to hide his grin as they all head to the elevator together, while Illya ignores him with commendable resolution. They remain silent during the ride to the sixth floor and the long walk down the sixties surf-inspired hallways, until Solo breaks off at his room a few doors down.

“Sleep well, you two,” he calls.

Gaby reminds herself to punch him when they next see each other.

She opens the door to reveal a stately room, decorated in white and ocean blues, with a large l-shaped sofa (yellow with coral print) positioned against one wall while the bed was pushed against the opposite. Across from them, the sliding door had been left open, revealing the soft late summer breeze through linen curtains.

Illya shuffles beside her. "I sleep on sofa."

She takes a running leap and flops backward onto the bed, arms splayed out wide. She sinks immediately in the mattress and inhales deeply, revelling in the scent of the ocean. "You're too tall."

"I can fit."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're grown adults; we can share a bed. Just stay on your side and I'll stay on mine.”

“If you insist.”

She doesn’t look up as the closet door squeaks; the hangers shuffle as Illya dutifully hangs up his clothes for the weekend, one by one. Gaby, on the other hand, wonders just how wrinkled her own dresses have become in her suitcase.

“What do you think of the decor?” Gaby asks, attempting to be amicable. “It’s nice, don’t you think?”

“Mid-century modern is overdone.” She can hear a scowl in his tone. “Selling trendy lifestyle is just way to make more money off uneducated public.”

She groans. “Do you have anything nice to say, ever?”

“If occasion deserves praise, then yes.”

“Then please, give me fair warning when that happens, because I might faint from shock.” Gaby rolls her eyes. “In the meantime, I’m going to get ready for bed.”

She takes her time in the shower, gathering her thoughts as the too-hot water splashes against her cheeks. Solo had not been exaggerating when he described that Illya isn’t exactly “her type” - he oozes rudeness, can hardly engage in dialogue, and seems as dull as printer paper.

She’s grateful to have packed her more practical sleepwear for the weekend, a light blue pajama set that she’s treasured since her college days, in addition to the lacy chemise that remains tucked away in the bottom of her luggage (and likely wouldn’t be receiving any usage this weekend).

She finds Illya reading a hardcover book ( _who buys books these days_ , she asks herself) in the corner armchair, while the television flashes - muted - in the background. He doesn’t look up as she exits the bathroom and passes in front of him to finish drying her hair in the mirror.

“We need to talk about our story,” she starts, interrupting the silence.

He meets her gaze in the mirror. “What story?”

Gaby sighs; can he really be so dense? "You know - how we fell in love, how you proposed, when we're getting married. The questions people might ask us."

"I know nothing of... _romance_. Cowboy is expert at this, no?"

She stiffens slightly, because it’s true - she’d be shocked if he had ever flirted in his life, or met someone who matched his seemingly unattainable standards. In fact, Solo _should_ be the one scripting their love story, since he threw her into this mess.

Yet something about Illya's tone - not condescending or bored, but also not curious enough - makes her want to give him a good shake.

For some irrational reason, Gaby wants him to care _more_.

“I think it would be more fun if we came up with one together,” she chirps with false enthusiasm. She scoops her hair into a towel and twists it securely atop her head. “It needs to be plausible.”

“You mean, why someone like you wants to be with someone like me.”

She ignores this and instead peeks inside the mini-fridge; she is delighted to find an assortment of liquors and wines. She takes out a small bottle of bourbon and pours it into two of the available tumblers. She holds out of them to Illya and doesn’t blink when he shakes his head.

“Suit yourself,” she mutters. “Let’s start with something easy. What side of the bed do you sleep on?”

“Left.”

“Good, because I always sleep on the right.” She stretches out on the sofa, a drink in each hand. “For fair warning, I hog the covers.”

Illya closes his book, sets it on the table beside him. “I have very cold feet.”

Gaby eyes the king-sized bed. “Don’t worry, I doubt we’ll be touching each other.”

It’s a small jab at the nature of their relationship, and he purses his lips briefly in response. “How did we meet?”

“Solo, naturally. I came to visit him a few summers ago and he introduced us.”

“I do not spend time with Cowboy socially,” Illya objects. “He has simple interests.”

“No one here needs to know that. Pretend you’re best friends.”

He crosses his arms. “We go to Cubs game together.”

She wrinkles her nose. “I don’t watch baseball. I don’t watch sports; everyone knows that.”

“You learn that it is my favorite sport, so you now enjoy it.”

She glares at him and, seeing no indication that he’ll change his mind, gives a tight smile. “If that’s the case, then you come willingly to the ballet with me. I see the production of _Swan Lake_ every year at the Boston Opera House.”

Illya dips his head. “I am Russian; of course I enjoy ballet.”

Gaby tucks away that piece of knowledge. “You were smitten with me instantly. You thought I was witty and charming, and even though I wasn’t interested in a relationship at the start, you were very perseverant.”

“You like perseverance, Ms. Teller?”

The question simmers with genuine curiosity, yet also a sliver of a challenge. She downs the rest of her drink. “I like someone who knows what he wants.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol taking its toll on her, or maybe it’s the curious intensity of Illya’s gaze, but Gaby is all too aware of her cheeks flushing. “Do you dance, Mr. Kuryakin?”

“No.”

“You don’t want to, or you don’t know how?”

“Let’s call it both.”

She rises and takes a few unsteady steps to the dial radio on the center credenza. She fiddles with the tuner until she finds an acceptable station. The room becomes filled with the dulcet, smoky voice of Ella Fitzgerald and she plants herself squarely in front of Illya.

“Then let me give you a lesson.”

He’s clearly unsure of how to react to this proposition, made by a feisty but half-drunk brunette with no fear in her eyes.

“You are drunk,” he points out.

“Only a little. _You_ are not dancing,” she accuses. Gaby swings her hips to the beat, grabs his fingers and attempts to pull him up with all her strength (he doesn't budge). He gives in, stands awkwardly on his two feet and allows her to lead him to the center of the room.

She slips her right hand into his left one, raises them to shoulder level, and places her left hand around his shoulder. “You put your right hand on my waist.”

Illya stands ramrod straight and, cautiously, he lowers his palm until it fits into the curve of her waist. She shudders at his touch, both at the frigidity of his fingers through her clothes and also at the mere centimeters between their bodies.

Gaby cranes her neck to meet his eyes; without shoes, she feels positively diminutive next to him.

“And now we sway.”

They begin to spin, her feet turning in circles within his much larger ones; in truth, she's using him for support as her own head reels. She forces herself to focus on his eyes to steady herself, ignores the fluttering in the pit of her stomach. This close, it is difficult for her to deny how handsome he is, though much different than Solo's attractiveness. Illya's good looks are softer, somehow, and somewhat blurred by his hardened exterior.

His grip on her wrist relaxes, and his steps more assured. “Did you dance when you were young?”

She nods. “My mother was a ballerina in Germany when she and my father met. I'd danced before I knew how to walk properly, but my lessons were short-lived."

"Why did you stop?"

She blushes. "I was a brat, I'm afraid. I never wanted to learn the choreography. My teacher became so frustrated with me that she kicked me out of her class; I was seven at the time."

His lips threaten to curve into a smile. "You are still just as stubborn?"

"If not more," Gaby laughs. She tips her head. “Why baseball?”

“I would see it in American movies, growing up. _Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, A League of Their Own_. We use broomsticks as bats, play in streets of my town.”

She tries to imagine Illya as a young boy, all wheat-blond hair and innocence, running the bases after a home run; she hopes he had a happy childhood.

Her face brightens with a new idea. “Last year at Christmas, you brought me to meet your parents. They were -”

“ _No_.”

The harshness of the word causes her to stop mid-sentence and she stumbles slightly as he releases her without warning. Illya walks to the window in two long strides; she watches, curious, as the fingers of his left hand tap erratically against the side of his leg.

“My family is not involved. They do not matter.”

She suddenly recalls Solo’s mention of Illya’s likely adoption and the mystery surrounding his past life. Gaby has the feeling that his parents matter _very much_ in Illya’s story, and his silence on the matter piques her curiosity.

She considers pushing the issue but resists, knowing she's not in the right mental alertness to ask the questions she desires. His expression is pained and hesitant; he’s curled his hand into a fist, knuckles white from carefully controlled emotion. He looks as if he wants to tell her more, but the vulnerability passes and is replaced by his usual stoicism.

“I'm sorry. I must go for a walk.”

 

(He leaves to escape to the beach, to yell into the wind and bury his fury in the sand. 

He's not sure how long he's gone, but there's a peculiar banging coming from Cowboy's room when he walks past - Illya tries not to imagine what might be happening inside. When he returns to their room, he finds everything just as he'd left it - lights on, jazz notes slipping from the radio, and his book on the nightstand. Gaby has fallen asleep on the sofa, curled on her side with one arm beneath her head as a pillow. She snores quietly, which amuses him greatly, and her damp hair has fanned around her head.

She feels light as a feather when he picks her up, one arm around her back and the other behind her knees. She stirs momentarily when he's lays her on her side of the bed - the right, he recalls - but easily returns to a deep slumber. He tucks the covers beneath her chin and she burrows into the pillow.

"Good night, Gaby Teller," he murmurs.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who has left kudos and notes - they all make me so happy! i hope you enjoyed this installment; more of the other characters will be appearing in the next chapter.


	3. part iii

She wakes to the sound of the deadbolt clicking, opens one eye to find Illya entering the doorway.

"What time is it?" She groans.

"Eight o'clock."

She buries her face in the pillow, temples pounding and tongue dry. "Don’t you understand that most people sleep in on the weekends? What are you doing up already?"

"I go for run on beach."

Her eyes open fully, and sure enough, Illya stands in a t-shirt and running shorts, with fluorescent yellow and green sneakers.

"Your running shoes don't match your shirt," she teases half-heartedly.

He cocks an eyebrow. "It doesn't have to match."

She exhales through her nose, unsure how she's going to survive the next two days with this man.

"I get you tea and croissant." He holds out the cup in his left hand. "And aspirin, for your hangover."

He says 'croissant' with more of an accent than his other words, adding the inflection to the wrong syllable. Maybe he’s not such a jerk after all.

"Thanks." She takes the cup from him, along with the small brown pastry bag. She points to writing on one side of the bag in bold, black marker. “Who’s Annie?”

Illya draws open the window curtains, unveiling a spectacular, cloudless blue sky. “Annie is girl at coffee shop.”

Gaby instinctively winces against the sunlight. “Why did she give you her phone number?”

He shrugs, nonplussed. “She says she is from area, can take me around if I am interested.”

For an inexplicable reason, Gaby feels a stab of disgruntlement. “Did you tell her you’re traveling with your fiancee?”

“She says her car is small, will not fit all of us. It is nice offer, no?”

“Extremely.” To her dismay, she finds his naiveté moderately endearing. “Thank you for the morning pick-me-up.”

He sits on the edge of the sofa, elbows propped on his knees. "What is plan for today?"

"Solo and I thought about driving out to Montauk for the morning. Then you and I are going to a fundraiser luncheon, a polo match that the Vinceguerra’s hold every year. You'll meet the dynasty, including the bride and groom.”

"This Alex...he is your friend?”

“Of course he is. I’ve known him all my life.” Off Illya’s curious expression, Gaby explains. "My father was their company's best engineer, and my uncle still works as the family doctor. His family helped pay for my education in high school and college, so it only made sense that I would work for the Vinceguerra’s after I graduated. I guess that also makes him indirectly my boss.”

“You were in love with him?"

She frowns. "Is that what Solo told you?"

Illya shrugs. "Cowboy did not tell me much. Just that his friend needs date for wedding, better if I am her fiancé.”

“Solo’s probably right. Finding out that I’ve managed to get engaged is due to make more of an impression than if I brought any random guy”

He waits a beat. “Did he break your heart?”

Gaby finds it surprisingly easy to shake her head left to right. “There was a brief period when I thought there was a mutual romantic attraction, and it turns out I was wrong. I’m not sure why I expected that a lowly engineer’s daughter would catch the eye of one of the world’s wealthiest bachelors. An Italian socialite like Victoria is much more suitable.”

“Money and class are not everything,” Illya states simply.

“Sometimes life just feels that way, doesn’t it?”

“Or maybe Alex is imbecile.”

Gaby brushes her bangs out of her eyes. “Maybe. His loss, anyway.” She winks at him. “I was able to fall in love with you over baseball instead.”

“Lucky for me.”

The statement catches her off guard, and she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to take his words at face value. But he’s already on the move, entering the bathroom to shower, and she’s left more confused than she started.

Eventually Illya leaves to rap on Solo’s door, and mid-knock the door swings open, revealing the same receptionist they encountered the prior night. She hums cheerfully under her breath, tucks in her polo shirt into her skirt, and wiggles her fingers at Solo as she departs the room.

Illya finds Solo lounging on the bed in a plush bathrobe, breakfast tray beside him and feet crossed leisurely at the ankles.

Solo raises his coffee cup in greeting. “I do love a good meal in bed, don’t you?”

Illya grunts. “Let’s move, Cowboy.”

*

They pile into Solo’s car and head to Montauk, the easternmost tip of Long Island. Illya once again takes the passenger side, his seat pushed as far back as it’ll allow, long legs stretched out in front of him.

Gaby stifles a giggle - he’s dressed for the fundraiser in a grey day suit, looking more dapper than she’d appreciated earlier. He’s brought a camera, simple and compact, and unlike the hulking devices that she associates with most tourists. Yet, with its small size, the camera hanging about his neck resembles more of a toy.

To his credit, he’s enthusiastic about snapping photos, aiming his camera at a group of seagulls lounging on the beach, a patch of yellow wildflowers by the road, a lone surfboard propped against a storefront.

They visit Montauk Lighthouse and cross down to the beach, Gaby carrying her shoes as she steps gingerly across the warm sand. She takes her time explaining the various men and women Illya’s likely to meet that day, and he listens keenly with an instantaneous memorization of the corporate tree.

Solo drops them off at the polo field, promises he’ll be back in a few hours to pick them up. Gaby considers asking him his plans for the afternoon, but also knows that he’ll have no difficulty entertaining himself.

(She’s put on one of her favorite day dresses, a white and green shift that hits just above her knees. Illya surveys her from head to toe, forehead slightly knitted.

“ _What_?” She asks, for the second time in two days.

“Concept is good, execution is poor. Dress needs to be tailored.” He gestures at her feet and shudders. “Round toe pumps are out of style.”

Gaby restrains herself from socking him in the face. “You really don’t approve of anything I wear, do you?”)

Gaby secures her wide-brimmed white hat on her head and slips on her sunglasses. “Be nice” she whispers to Illya, both a warning and a plead.

They’re accosted immediately upon their arrival, mostly by other members of Alex’s family who have known her since she was a small girl. The company is fully a family affair, with uncles and brothers filling in various executive roles, with their stately wives in impressive jewels and designer clothes. The men, round in the middle with prosperity, puff on cigars and laugh jovially; the women fluff their hair as an opportunity to show off the new bangles on their wrists.

With each introduction, Gaby finds it easier to address Illya as her fiancé, and he in turn responds with pristine manners and a polite smile. She finds him charming in an aloof sort of way, as if his general seriousness makes his moments of levity - such as a genuine smile when someone tells him that Gaby will undoubtedly be the ruler of the house - all the more appealing. Gaby sips on expensive champagne as they make their rounds, Illya taking photos of the polo horses and the ridiculous hats atop womens' heads.

Their stroll is interrupted by the sound of hoofs against dirt, and they turn in time to see a raven-coated thoroughbred slow beside them. Its rider hops to the ground easily, pulling off his helmet with flourish.

Tucking the helmet underneath his arm, he bows at the waist. “Gaby Teller, I’ve found you at last.”

She is unable to conceal the flush in her neck. “Alex. You’re looking well.”

“As are you. Love has added a new glow to your complexion.” He grasps her by the shoulders and kisses her against each of her pink cheeks, perhaps lingering longer than he ought to against her skin.

He focuses his attention on the blonde man beside her. “You must be the mystery man. You have no idea how surprised we all were when we’d found out that our Gaby had been taken off the market.” He offers a hand. “Alexander Vinceguerra.”

Gaby tightens her grip on his arm and coughs, which seems to startle Illya enough that he relents and shakes Alex’s hand. “Illya Kuryakin.”

Alex nods, apparently satisfied at the introduction, and steers Gaby further from the main group. He takes an unusual interest in her life, as well as how and when and where she’d met Illya. She wears her ring proudly, even though Gaby is no stranger to the ten-carat yellow diamond that Victoria displays on her finger.

She’s careful not to stray too far, remaining always within earshot of Illya’s dialogues.

One of the older women - who Gaby recognizes as Alex’s aunt, Sylvia - trails her eyes down Illya’s frame. “Russian?”

“Yes.”

“I’d thought about adopting a Russian orphan,” Sylvia says airily. “There’s just so many of them. Beautiful, of course, with their light hair and blue eyes.” She continues to no one in particular, speaking her mind about children raised in communist societies, and the risks of adopting older children from broken families.

Gaby watches Illya’s eyes bulge more and more with each word, and his left fingers strum against his thigh. She pardons herself from Alex and crosses to his side. She wraps her free hand around his left wrist, jolts at the tension that brims beneath her skin. Very deliberately, she presses the heel of her shoe against his toe; he flinches and looks at her, blue eyes dangerously bright.

Gaby stares back, chin up in defiance, and doesn’t budge until she feels his body relax. Eventually his arm stills against his leg and a hint of color returns to his face.

“Excuse me,” he announces woodenly, “I do not feel well,”

He withdraws and turns briskly, storms with blind purpose out of eyesight. Gaby chuckles nervously at his departure, torn between staying and making polite conversation, and running after him. She’s rooted in place and takes another full glass off the waiter’s tray, pretending to listen to Alex’s rock climbing adventures in Kalymnos the prior spring.

(Frankly, she’d forgotten how few interests the two of them shared.)

Their conversation is interrupted by a member of the waitstaff, who comes to a stop behind Sylvia, phone in hand.

“Madame,” he murmurs, “your son would like to speak with you.” Sylvia is ready to brush him away when he adds, “Your son reports that he is trapped in the bathroom stall. A tall gentleman hung him up by his shirt collar, I believe.”

Gaby utters a noise akin to a strangled gasp as several eyes turn onto her. She grips the stem of her champagne glass even tighter, attempting to maintain her composure.

“I just realized Illya’s been gone a while,” she stammers. “I should check up on him.”

She down the rest of her drink in one gulp and slinks away without a backwards glance. She stomps behind the catering tents and finds Illya pacing behind the reception building as he opens and closes his fists. Gaby steps in front of his path and draws herself up to her full height, and though she still only comes up to his shoulders, glares at him with every ounce of emotion in her body.

“What is _wrong_ with you?” She hisses. “Did you just harass the son of our CFO? Did you hang him up in the _bathroom_?”

“Your colleagues were not saying nice things about my country.”

“That may be so, but it doesn’t give you the right to unleash your fury on the first person you meet.”

Illya scoffs. “That kid is idiot. He did not leave bathroom when I asked. He is lucky I did not break arm.”

“You’re not supposed to go around breaking teenage boys’ arms!” Gaby clutches her temples. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.”

“Maybe this is not good idea,” Illya mumbles. “I should not be your fiancé.”

“Too late now,” she huffs. “I have to wait another week or two before I break off our engagement.” She shakes her head. “We need to get out of here and let everyone forget about this incident.”

Her hands are trembling by the time they’ve escaped the confines of the polo grounds, agitated by both the tenuousness of Illya’s temper as well as by the concern that she’ll be even more of a laughing stock if their false romance is uncovered.

She flags down one of the taxis waiting in the parking lot, all but shoves Illya into the backseat. They ride back to the hotel in silence.

“I’m going for a swim,” Gaby announces, as she wrenches open the car door.

Illya peers at her under the shade of his palm. “That is not good idea. You drink too much.”

“I’m barely tipsy and I’m an excellent swimmer.” She waves her index finger in front of Illya’s nose. “You take this time to calm yourself down. I can’t have you flying off the handle at every public function. There’s still the rehearsal dinner tonight and I need you to be on your best behavior.”

His head dips slightly and he swallows. “I’m sorry. I try to be better.”

She sighs. She’s packed a green and white two-piece for this trip, with the intention of only sunning by the pool, but the ocean’s never looked more inviting. Gaby changes quickly, leaving her day clothes in a heap on the floor, and leaves out their porch door with a slam of the door.

She gasps when the water sweeps against her ankles for the first time but trudges on resolutely, sinking deeper until she’s covered to her waist, then her chest, and finally she dives underwater. She swims with long pulls, calmer with each stroke. The sun shines with full force overhead, leaving her forehead hot.

She looks back, finds that she’s traveled a decent distance from the shore. The water begins to churn around her, strong forces against her legs that threaten to suck her under. Gaby tries her best to swim towards the beach, but the tide continues to pull her further into the horizon. She begins to panic, wondering if she’s in the midst of a riptide, and worried that she’ll soon grow tired. She berates herself not paying attention to who else was on the water, or whether there was even a lifeguard on duty.

Suddenly a head breaks through the surface with strong hands clasped around her arms. Startled, she doesn’t quite muster a scream, but ends up swallowing another mouthful of saltwater.

“Gaby, it is me.” Illya shakes his head slightly, trying to divert the streams of water that race into his eyes. “Are you okay?”

She answers with a wet cough, resisting the urge to throw her hands around his neck and cling to him for dear life. Instead, she digs her fingernails into his shoulders, concentrating on taking in gulps of air. She hopes the relief that has flooded through her isn’t so evident on her face, but maybe she doesn’t really care about keeping up pretenses any more.

“I think I got caught in a current,” she explains lamely. “The alcohol probably didn’t help.”

Gaby expects him to chide her for her stupidity, but if he’s thinking I told you so he doesn’t say it aloud.

They bob silently in the waves, her thighs hugging his waist as his legs beat in steady circles underneath them. As her anxiety and adrenaline fade, she becomes increasingly aware of their proximity. His skin is slick with sunscreen and salt, and the muscles of his back ebb and flow beneath her touch. She releases one of her hands and uses her fingers to brush his matted hair off his forehead.

His eyes close briefly at her touch; she’s close enough to count each of the golden eyelashes that brim against his cheekbones.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she says lamely.

“It is okay. I am sometimes -” He searches for the right term. “Basketcase.”

She smiles in response, almost saddened by his self-awareness.

Gaby figures to hell with it; maybe she _should_ be kissing him. He is her fiancé, after all - and who knows when will be the next time she can say those words.

Maybe the same thought crosses his mind, because Illya stares at her with startling intensity. He leans in slightly and she unconsciously angles her head, palm curled against his jaw.

“Beautiful afternoon for a swim.”

She shrieks in response to the unexpected voice, loosens her hold on Illya and falls back underwater. He eases her back to the surface, and she nearly throws a fit when she recognizes Solo’s beaming face.

Another head pops up next to his, a stunning blonde who presses herself against Solo’s back, arms linked around his shoulders.

“This is Cassandra,” he announces, as if they’ve known one another for years. “We were getting a massage in the spa at the same time and thought a swim afterwards would be nice.”

If Gaby rolls her eyes any harder, she’s afraid they’ll fall out of their sockets. “I think I’ve had enough of the water.”

Instinctively she looks behind her, catches Illya’s nod. “Don’t worry, I will be close by.”

(For a reason she can’t quite explain, she is reassured by these words, and begins the swim back to shore.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay in getting this up! thanks again for all the kind comments and kudos! xoxo.


	4. part iv

The rehearsal dinner is held at a local winery, a vast expanse of green fields lined by rows of grape trees. The evening speaks to another summer drawing to a close, the sky lit in hues of pink and orange as the warm ocean air breezes through snaking vines.

This is a more intimate gathering than either the polo game or the wedding reception planned for tomorrow, with only the immediate family and closest friends invited.

Gaby sometimes still finds it peculiar that she’s a part of these rosters, as Victoria has indicated - on more than one occasion - that she doesn’t regard Gaby with any amount of fondness. Perhaps Alex still includes her for sentimental reasons, which she appreciates.

Early on they cross paths with Sylvia and her son, who visibly blanches at the sight of Illya and scurries behind his mother. Illya, to his credit, merely nods his hello in their direction.

As always, a Vinceguerra event is not a _party_ without an open bar, and Gaby takes full advantage of the fact that she’s not ‘at work’ tonight.

She watches from her perch at the opposite side of the patio, swirling the straw within her gin and tonic (not enough gin, in her opinion). Illya had dutifully meandered to the bar after she'd requested another drink (whiskey, neat), and she'd witnessed - to her great amusement - multiple women approach Illya during the fifty-foot journey.

Gaby can’t blame any of them - his height makes him hard to miss in a crowd and he looks _good_ , and for the umpteenth time this weekend she acknowledges the importance of well-fitting clothes.

(Maybe she’ll consider finding herself a tailor in Boston.)

A striking, leggy blond has eased herself next to Illya at the bar, trapping him against the counter as he holds a glass in each hand. She places a slender, manicured finger on his chest, running her nail along the length of his shirt collar; even from her distance, Gaby can see his neck veins pulse.

“You look like you’re getting ready to pounce,” a familiar voice drawls, as the chair beside her scrapes against the tiled ground.

Without turning her head, Gaby replies glibly, “I’m just keeping an eye on my man. You, of all people, know how frisky these women can be.”

Solo chuckles. “Yes, and bless them for it.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “Isn’t that Victoria’s sister who’s with Peril?”

“ _You_ should know,” Gaby responds, “since I recall you taking Catherine out on a joy ride in Alex’s Ferrari a few summers ago and scratching the fender.”

“Of course.” Solo’s face brightens at the memory. “She made me call her ‘Catherine the Great’ when we were -” Off Gaby’s disgust, he chuckles. “Anyway, that was a delightful week we all spent together.”

They both watch with bemusement as Catherine steps even closer into Illya’s personal space; with both her own height and stilettos, she’s nearly eye level with him. Illya smiles sheepishly and stammers something that causes her to tip her head back with an exaggerated laugh.

"You're not going to rescue him?"

Gaby sighs; she's not entirely jealous (she, of course, has no reason to feel any sort of possession over him), but she does appreciate that he's being a good sport about this circus of a weekend.

“Not quite yet.” She turns to look at Solo with a raised brow. “How did you get him to go along with this plan, anyway? Illya doesn’t seem like someone who’s itching to rub elbows with hundreds of strangers, acting as the lead in my fairytale romance.”

He munches on a handful of cocktail nuts. “I told him that I had a friend who needed a little life reinforcement. I said you were gorgeous, brilliant, and clever, and you needed to make an impression around your boss that indicated you had a thriving social life outside of work.”

She shakes her head in amusement. “So you found someone who was incredibly attractive and has a great eye for high fashion, but can’t put three words together without breaking something.”

“Like I told you before, just don’t mention anything inaccurate about Russian history.” Solo finishes off the remainder of his drink. “Don’t lie - he’s growing on you, isn’t he?

“A little, in his own crabby, socially awkward way.” Gaby bumps her shoulder against his. “Or else it just means I’ve been drinking too much.”

Out the corner of her eye, Gaby spots Catherine plucking the glass of whiskey (her drink!) from Illya’s grasp and taking a long sip. The blond coughs quietly, face twisted in a grimace.

“And that, I’m afraid, is where I draw the line,” Gaby grumbles.

She clears her throat, eases back her shoulders, and marches towards the duo. Gaby slips deftly underneath the curve of Illya’s arm and nestles against his body, one arm snaking around his waist.

"Darling, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Gaby purrs.

Catherine glares at her with annoyance. “You must be the fiancee.”

“I am.”

“Have we met before?”

“Many times.”

Catherine sniffs. “Really? I can’t for the life of me place it. Pity.”

Gaby smiles sweetly. “How’s the whiskey?”

Catherine purses her lips. "Strong. Not my style."

Gaby shrugs, presser tighter against Illya. "Must be an acquired taste."

They’re seated, thankfully, with Solo and the other Ivy Leaguers she’s known for years. His classmates are mostly all in business or finance, whether investors or entrepreneurs, with millions or billions of dollars at their fingertips.

She directs Illya to an end corner seat, carefully positions herself beside him and Solo at the opposite side, in order to create a buffer of conversation that wouldn’t erupt into a fight.

To her surprise, Illya eases into dinner and finds a shocking number of common interests with Solo and Alex’s old friends. Gaby learns that he enjoys classic cars (she stores away that bit of information), plays chess in his spare time, is allergic to strawberries, and took up sailing in college. The topic of baseball arises and she loses him entirely to a debate on which team is most likely to win the World Series that year.

At one point in time, when his arm is stretched along the back of her chair, he catches her watching him with open curiosity. Her face grows hot from embarrassment, but he merely smiles in return, and - cautiously - he reaches forward to trail his thumb against the back of her neck.

She shivers, and not just because his fingers are ice cold.

(She swears that each and every hair on her body stands on end, and she forgets to breathe.)

They’re served a four-course meal, rich with cream sauce and wine-braised meats, and it feels as if a waiter is constantly refilling her wine glass. Illya, to his credit, sticks to seltzer water and lime, not budging despite Solo’s encouragements to “live a little”.

Evening turns into night, the overhead hanging light bulbs swinging gently overhead. The tables have been cleared with guests milling about, words slurred from sleep and alcohol.

Afterwards, the two of them take a stroll through the vineyard, her arm linked through the curve of his elbow as he tells her an absurd story about how the Russians were actually the first to make wine. Illya has given her his suit jacket to drape over her shoulders, after she’d run her hands over her bare arms to warm them.

At the end of a row of their row looms a gazebo, lit only by the moonlight, and as they approach Gaby discerns the figures of two other individuals. Then she hears a voice that she’d recognize in her sleep, and sure enough, they’ve come across the bridge and groom.

Victoria, in her mere existence, commands awe and attention, tall and statuesque with her long blonde hair twisted high on her head as if to heighten her presence. Her eyes are an electric blue, outlined by inky makeup, with her mouth set in an bored line.

Alex sweeps out his arm in a welcome. “Victoria, you remember Gaby, don’t you?”

She trails her gaze over Gaby’s attire, with even more disappointment than Illya had mustered earlier. “Gaby, of course. I could hardly recognize you without your dreary mechanics uniform.”

“It’s difficult to examine the undercarriage of a car wearing heels and silk blouses,” Gaby retorts.

“Gaby doesn’t mind getting some dirt under her nails,” Alex chortles; he winks at Illya. “I’m sure you figured that out quickly. Victoria, this is Illya, Gaby’s fiancé.”

Her eyes brighten considerably. “Charmed.” She holds out a delicate, thin arm, hand dangling before his face. “I’m shocked you weren’t frightened away by Gaby in her burlap sack. It doesn’t do much for her complexion.”

Perhaps Victoria had intended Illya to kiss the back of her hand like a proper gentleman, but he merely shakes it brusquely. “Gaby look nice in everything.”

Victoria blinks at him slowly with a scrutinizing frown. “If you say so."

"I've got to hand it to you, Kuryakin," Alex muses, "of all the types of guys I would have picked for Gaby, you are definitely not it."

"And why is that?" Gaby asks, feeling oddly defensive - for herself or Illya, she wasn't sure.

"I would have imagined someone more... _European_. More exciting than an architect, no offense." Alex shrugs, rolls on his back heels. "And, to say the least, from a more refined family."

Out the corner of her eye, she sees Illya's fingers strumming a jarring beat against his thigh. Gaby has a sinking feeling that this interaction might end poorly, and unfortunately there’s not much to distract him.

"Alex," Gaby starts, voice terse with an unspoken warning. "I think that's enough."

"I did a little investigation on your man here," Alex continues, paying her no mind. "Nothing but the best for our dear Gaby Teller. I'm sure he told you how his father gambled away the family's name into ruin back home. It caused quite the local scandal, actually. The well-respected -"

Suddenly, before she’s even sure what’s happened - Illya swings his arm into the air and Alex falls to the ground with a grunt. He quakes on his knees, one hand grasping his neck with a wheeze. Victoria crouches next to him with a shriek, fingers ripping at the collar of his shirt, as his face darkens to a curious shade of purple.

Gaby stares at Illya, slack jawed. “Why does he look like he’s having trouble breathing?”

“Only temporary effect. Do not worry; I do this many times before.”

“Are you kidding me? Did you just punch him?”

“Special maneuver, cut off vocal cord temporarily.”

“He’s getting married tomorrow!” She exclaims. “You can’t punch the groom at his rehearsal dinner!”

Illya cracks his knuckles, straightens out his tie. “He will be fine in few minutes. No bruise.”

“You are _crazy_ ,” Victoria sputters, for once losing her poise as she helps Alex to his feet. His face color shifts to beet red, with beads of sweat on his forehead. “Both of you! I knew we should never have invited you this weekend.”

“He is lucky I did not punch him in face, give him black eye,” Illya all but growls. “Bad for wedding pictures.”

Alex is pointing his index finger angrily in Illya’s direction, still relegated to a soundless anger. He’s returning to a more physiologic shade, though he’s drenched through his shirt and his perfectly-styled hair has come undone in a pool of curls.

“Well, it’s getting late!” Gaby chirps, backing away slowly while tugging on Illya’s arm. “We should be getting to bed. See you tomorrow!”

Victoria sends them off with a frustrated scream. Gaby dodges through the thinning crowd, locates a familiar chiseled jaw and hooks her arm into Solo’s.

“Time to go!” She hisses under her breath.

“What, already? I was just beginning to enjoy myself.” Solo tugs a pretty brunette behind him, with Illya bringing up the rear. “Have you met Josephine? She’s one of the bridesmaids.”

Josephine troops along, not seemingly bothered by Solo’s inebriated state or these new people who briefly acknowledge her existence. Illya, as the only sober member of the group, takes the car keys and the wheel, with Solo and Josephine collapsing into a fit of laughter in the back row and Gaby urging him to drive faster.

At the hotel, Solo’s door has barely closed before Illya and Gaby hear the sound of the bed creaking beneath newfound weight.

They settle into an awkward silence upon their return to their own room, with Illya heading immediately to the shower as Gaby begins the slow removal of her jewelry.

Maybe he’s trying to avoid her, because he’s already in bed with his light turned off by the time she’s finished in the bathroom and changed into her pajamas. She slips into her side and unapologetically opens a magazine in her lap, though she’s not at all interested in its contents. She stares briefly at the back of his head, gauging her level of curiosity.

“Why don’t you drink?”

It’s not exactly a conversation starter and he may already be asleep, but she doesn’t care. To her relief, she feels him stiffen slightly.

“Is that very unusual?”

“You’re Russian. I thought all Russians drank, at least vodka if nothing else.”

He grunts, not particularly agreeing or denying the statement. “Alcohol make people do foolish things.”

She waits patiently for him to elaborate. He stays silent for what feels like hours, and she’s beginning to lose hope that he’ll provide any more details, until he mutters -

“My father, he was physicist. Very smart man, discover many things. But he had bad habits. He drink, smoke, gamble. He lost our family’s savings and owe money to many people, like Alex say.”

Illya pauses, as if taken aback by the fact that he’s told her this much. Then, slowly, he proceeds -

“My mother, she was piano teacher. Very gentle and kind. She did not know how to stand up to father. One day, two men come to house. They have guns and they are very angry. Break my mother’s hand.”

Gaby reaches out involuntarily, as if to place a hand on his shoulder. But she catches herself, grateful that he’s still turned the opposite direction, because she’s usually not one to offer comfort - and maybe he doesn’t like to be touched.

”Is that how you got the scar by your eye?"

He rolls over now, until he’s facing her with one arm tucked beneath his head. "I was nine or ten. We had no money and little food. The boys at my school, they were not kind.”

Gaby matches his position, curls an arm underneath her cheek. “Kids usually aren’t very nice.”

“They would tease me, say cruel things about my family, words that children should not know.” Illya shrugs. “One threw glass bottle. I bleed so much that I could not see.”

"You're lucky you didn't lose an eye."

“That is last time I see my father, when those men came,” Illya concludes. "My mother, she never tell me what she did for money, but I can guess. She cannot play piano any more. One day, she bring home my favorite candy, ptichye moloko, and many loaves of bread. I did not ask her where this come from. That same night, she put on very nice dress, tell me to go to bed, and say she will be back before morning." He inhales deeply. "She never come home."

She chews on her lower lip, not needing him to fill in any of the details. Gaby remembers what he’d told her the night before, about playing makeshift baseball in the streets of his town and her hope that he’d had a pleasant childhood.

(She now knows that was far from true.)

He waits a beat, then admits - "I was scared. I play chess and piano. I did not know how to defend myself.”

She’s struck by how vulnerable he appears in this lighting. "And now you fight back all the time."

“Yes. That makes me foolish.” Illya groans slightly, drags his palm over his eyes.

“No, it doesn’t,” Gaby protests. “Unpredictable, perhaps, but not foolish.” She pauses, pinches the bridge of her nose. “Although, you shouldn’t have punched Alex.”

“He should not have said those things about me.”

“Well, I'm not saying that he didn't _deserve_ it, but these are not people you mess with.” She garners her sternest expression. “I’m serious! The reason my family has survived and succeeded in this company, is by keeping our head down and our mouth shut.”

“This is not the Russian way.”

Gaby stifles a sigh. “Right, I forgot. You’re the guy who fights back all the time.”

She loses track of the time as she tells him about her own youth - growing up in the shadow of the Vinceguerra’s wealth, her father’s unexpected heart attack before her thirteenth birthday (she wonders if the fact that they are both orphans had influenced Solo’s choice of a suitor), and spending the rest of her teenage years with her Uncle Rudy.

They talk about their love for vintage Porsches, about Illya’s vision for the new university library that he’s designing as part of Waverley’s generous endowment to his alma mater, about her dreams to travel the world.

(She’s startled awake at some point in the middle of the night, discovers that she’s curled into fetal position on Illya’s side of the bed, with one arm flung over his chest while her face is pressed against his back. She should move away but there’s something strangely comforting about his closeness, the steady cadence of his breathing that is so often erratic while he’s awake.

She closes her eyes and falls again into a dreamless sleep.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay - life was hectic this last week. thanks again for all the love and kind words. only one more chapter to go! xoxo


	5. part v

By the time she wakes the next morning, Gaby finds herself entirely on the left side of the bed, with her face buried in Illya’s pillow and the covers crowded around her like a cocoon. The faint sound of the shower trickles from the bathroom and as she blinks away sleep, she is greeted by another to-go cup and paper bag on the nightstand.

Gaby sits up, wondering if she had encroached fully on Illya’s space before or after he’d already left the bed. Not wanting to know the answer, she takes a tentative sip from the cup and is pleased to taste coffee with a hint of milk and sugar.

She’s halfway through the cream cheese danish when Illya emerges from the bathroom, dressed only in a pair of dark denims with his still-damp hair combed back from his face. Gaby nearly chokes; this all feels strangely casual and domestic, as if it is completely normal for her to share a bathroom - and a bed - with a man she barely knows.

Nevertheless, his body is no effort for her to appreciate from a distance, so she crams the remainder of the pastry into her mouth to keep from ogling.

“Good morning,” Illya says easily, as if they hadn’t just divulged their tragic pasts to one another a few hours prior. He fishes out a polo shirt from the closet and sets it on the ironing board.

(Gaby doesn’t know anyone who irons his or her casual wear, yet somehow this habit of Illya’s seems par for the course.)

She swallows. “Good morning.” She points to the pastry bag, again decorated with a name and phone number, and raises an eyebrow. “Considering your usual reticence, you seem to strike things up quickly with your baristas.”

He clears his throat, focuses on sweeping the iron across his shirt with directed movements. “It must be the accent, hard to resist.”

Gaby swears that he’s actually made a joke, which leads her to think that maybe their relationship has in fact grown significantly in the past twelve hours.

Solo shows up shortly thereafter to their room, explaining his solitary status with a simple “bridesmaids duties”.

They pass the morning with a leisurely brunch at a small cafe that overlooks the beach, with Gaby easily tucking away two peach bellinis and Solo pacing himself through two bloody marys and a cappuccino. Afterwards, as the sun makes its slow march to the apex of the sky, the three of them retreat to the ocean, where Gaby wades ankle-deep into the warm late summer waters and watches Illya from behind the anonymity of her sunglasses.

(They have the luxury of _not_ being friends, Gaby figures, which means that if they never see each other again after tomorrow, then neither of them has actually lost anything meaningful. Yet she surprises herself by the subtle desire to know even more about him - how he takes his coffee, his favorite movie, his first kiss.)

They return to the hotel to prepare for the remainder of the day, where Gaby begins to dread showing Illya what she had brought for the wedding ceremony and reception.

Gaby pulls a beaded navy dress - moderately tight-fitting, with thin straps and a deep scoop neck - from her suitcase and lifts it up for display. “This is the fanciest item I own. I was going to wear it tonight, with my gold heels.”

Illya scans it from top to bottom, forehead knitted in concentration. He makes a noise akin to hmph but doesn’t offer much else by way of approval.

“Don’t you dare tell me you don’t like it,” Gaby rages. “If you have nothing nice to say, then keep your thoughts to yourself.”

He shrugs. “The dress is nice.” A pause. “If you are mother of the groom.”

She throws up her hands in defeat. “You are such a jerk. Too bad, anyway, because I have nothing else to wear, unless you want me to show up in jeans and a t-shirt.”

He rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Wait one second.”

Illya turns to the closet and emerges with the large shopping bag that he hasn’t touched since their arrival to the hotel. Gaby had forgotten about it entirely, presuming it contained his dress shoes or something equally unexciting. He produces a rectangular box and shakes it gently.

“This is for you."

Gaby’s eyes bug slightly. “What is that?”

“I get you present.”

He looks terribly pleased with himself, holding the beautifully wrapped box in his hands. She takes the package, highly suspicious, and peels away the gold foil wrapping, revealing an understated white glossy box. With a racing heart, she lifts off the top, folds away the tissue paper, and gasps at the sight.

"You got me a dress?"

He nods proudly. "To wear to wedding."

"When did you buy this?” Gaby asks, incredulous. “You just met me two days ago."

“In Chicago, of course.”

She blinks with confusion. “How did you buy me a dress without having met me?”

“Cowboy show me pictures of you. I guess your size.”

She sputters slightly, flabbergasted by this turn of events. “ _You_ got _me_ a dress?” Gaby repeats, louder and more emotional this time, although she herself is unsure if she’s irate or touched. “Did you expect me to be a helpless wife, relying on her husband to pick out her clothes?”

Illya frowns, clearly perplexed by her anger. “No. I thought you might like a new dress for this wedding.”

Gaby fists her hands against her hips. “Look, Illya, in case you haven’t noticed, I am my own woman, and I make decisions for myself. Just because you’re pretending to be my fiancé doesn’t mean you get in say in my life. You especially don’t get to make me feel bad about my wardrobe.”

He raises his arms in surrender. "Gaby, you are very beautiful woman. I do not mean to offend you. But you have terrible fashion sense and do not pick right clothes for your figure."

She stops fuming and instead stares, slack-jawed and speechless. If she heard him correctly, he’d actually called her _beautiful_ \- and then proceeded to criticize her taste.

"I can't tell if that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult."

"It is merely observation."

Gaby musters a choked laugh and shakes her head slowly, though she reaches forward to remove the dress from the box. "I've never met anyone like you, Illya."

He tilts his head and offers her a shy smile. "Is that compliment or insult?"

"There are worse things." She ogles the gown before her and glances fleetingly at the navy blue dress that’s been tossed by the wayside. “If this doesn’t fit right,” she warns him, “then back into the box it goes.” He nods, satisfied with their compromise. “Now go bother Solo and let me get ready in peace.”

(Of course, the dress fits like a glove, as if it had been constructed especially for her.

She shines in the deep orange, the silk skirt flowing around her as smoothly as a second skin. She’s awed by the beautiful gold detailing at the edges, with the strapless top piece hugging all the right curves, and she’s a fan of every angle she sees reflected in the full-length mirror before her.

 _Damn Illya and his impeccable style_.)

She enters Solo's room without knocking, arms holding up the bodice of her dress as she wobbles on her gold stilettos. Illya’s sitting on the sofa with his back to the wall, flipping mindlessly through a magazine.

"If I trip and break my ankles in this shoes," she whines, "I'm making you carry me everywhere."

Solo's eyebrows have risen at the sight of her. "You're looking nice," he drawls appreciatively. "I never would have pegged you for a couture type of gal."

He's already changed, in a sharp and well-fitted tuxedo that probably cost more than her last month's paycheck. As always, he's dressed to impress, with the bold dark looks of someone fitted for a red carpet; she guesses that he won’t spend a single minute alone tonight.

Gaby grumbles under her breath, because of course she's surrounded by two men who know clothes better than she does.

"I need someone to help me with the back buttons; I can't reach them."

Napoleon tips his head to his friend. "Be my guest." He takes his drink and ambles to his patio, leaving them alone.

She turns slightly, sees Illya gazing at her from his spot on the couch. As always, his face is unreadable, except for thin blue vein that runs just above the scar on his temple which pulses more than she’s ever seen it.

Gaby steps carefully onto the coffee table, so that he doesn't need to stoop in order to reach the back of her dress. She sweeps her hair over one shoulder as she watches him rub his palms together, and it’s just a random gesture that she's tempted to ask him what he's doing.

She yelps when his frigid fingers brush against her back. “They’re still cold,” she sighs, righting herself against his shoulder.

"Sorry.”

He braces one hand against her spine, fingers spread across her skin as he tackles the row of buttons with surprising deftness and once he's finished the task, leans back. She turns slowly, finds herself several inches taller than he is and revels in this power.

(He’s spectacularly attractive at this angle, sunlight falling against the sharp angles of his jaw as his breath warms the hollow of her throat.

Her vision grows hazy at the edges as she feels as if gravity is pulling her towards him, and the hand that’s been resting on his shoulder creeps towards his face until her thumb grazes his ear.)

She’s surprised by how calm she sounds when she asks, "Well? What do you think?"

Illya stares up at her, expression gentle and admiring, as if she’s garnered the force of the sun. His eyes are a deeper blue than she's seen them so far, roaming her face.

"Lovely."

She's aware of the warmth that creeps up her neck, of how close he's standing, of his fingers that reach up to twist around a lock of her ponytail. Every hair on her body is singing with tension as she dips her head, eyes fluttering closed, and she holds her breath as -

"It's hot in here, isn't it?"

Solo's voice interrupts the privacy and they both lurch back.

"I hope they have air conditioning in the church," he continues, seemingly oblivious, refilling his glass with another generous pour of whiskey.

Gaby groans slightly and resists the urge to stamp her foot against the stable in frustration. She can't discern if Illya seems dismayed by the lost opportunity, but he’s back to his usual stoic self.

"I’ll help you down," he declares instead, and with one easy movement he grasps her at the waist and swings her effortlessly to the ground.

"Thanks," she murmurs, somewhat breathless. "You should probably change."

He exits dutifully to reclaim the bathroom and she can’t stop her gaze from following him out the room. For a fleeting second she thinks about what his body might look like - utterly naked - in the shower.

Her cheeks flame red and she glares at Solo, who does nothing to conceal his glee.

“Drink?” He offers, and she gratefully accepts.

*

The ceremony is held in a local church, packed to the brim with the hundreds of guests in attendance. As Solo had feared, the landmark building is not equipped with air conditioning, though delicate hand fans are distributed to stave off the growing humidity.

Victoria glides down the aisle in a decadent white gown, handmade from a renowned designer with a long lace train imported from Italy.

Alex, to his credit, also looks dapper, though he doesn’t come close to Illya in his trim black tuxedo, who had made her choke on her drink back at the hotel when he made his understated entrance.

(The primary problem being, of course, that a growing part of her wants her _out_ of his clothes, and she's not quite sure how to handle those urges.)

Gaby tears up during the vows, spoken in both English and Italian, because there's something so vulnerable about this singular moment of devoting one's happiness to another. In spite of herself, Gaby finds herself reaching for Illya's hand. He glances down in surprise when her fingers slide into his palm; she stares straight ahead as he squeezes her hand in return, and if Solo notices the gesture then he does nothing more than nudge her knee with his.

The Vinceguerras host the wedding reception at their summer estate, with a backyard that spills seamlessly onto the beach. Their tiled patio is expansive, now converted to a dining hall and dance floor with strings of light bulbs swinging from the rafters. The bride and groom’s table is situated directly on the area marked off for dancing, in front of the ten-piece band, with an assortment of long and circular patios dotting the patio. The decorations are dreamy and lush, an ethereal wonderland with the vast ocean as the picture-perfect backdrop.

Though she doesn’t say it aloud, Gaby is relieved when the maitre d’ locates their names on the guest list and directs them to their table; she’d secretly feared that Victoria would have banned them from the premises after last night.

They’re seated with Solo and a mix of old college friends and her work colleagues. The conversation starts out politely, with everyone on their best behavior for this elegant affair. They’re treated to a multi-course dinner, a constant lifting and serving of beautifully-plated dishes that melt against her taste buds.

Gaby estimates that her tale alone polishes off two bottles of wine before the fourth course, and there’s no sign that anyone plans on moderation this evening. Illya, true to form, declines any alcoholic beverage, and when Solo threatens to make a joke about it, Gaby steps forcefully on the toe of his shoe until he yelps in protest.

“Are you okay?” Illya whispers into her ear during the first dance, a romantic and well-choreographed waltz.

She’s touched that he thinks of asking her this question, and she nods - not expecting to discover that she feels no regret or sadness.

As they round the tables to offer their thanks, Alex stays deliberately out of Illya’s reach and peers at the tall blonde nervously, while Victoria doesn’t extend them a sideways glare.

Late in the night, after the cake has been cut - and everyone overhears Victoria whisper “If you get frosting on my face I’ll stab you in the eye” to Alex - and the dinner plates have been cleared away, after the clock strikes midnight, the band announces that they are kicking off their last set of the event.

They lost track of Solo a long while back, though Gaby’s fairly certain she saw him disappear into the pool house an hour or so ago with an unidentified redhead. Victoria surveys the reception with the unamused eyes of a queen surveying her kingdom, sending waiters and waitresses scurrying with a flick of her finger.

Gaby’s heels have been off for a long while, hopefully strewn under a table somewhere, and in between songs she lands unsteadily onto Illya’s lap, one arm hooked around his neck as they watch the festivities before them.

“I look like a mess, don’t I?” She fans her face with her hands.

“You look like you’re having a good time,” Illya corrects. He hands her his glass of water, which she takes gratefully and polishes off in one long gulp.

“Please tell me you’re having fun,” she teases.

“Of course I am. I took off my tuxedo jacket, see? I’m the epitome of relaxation and enjoyment.”

Gaby rolls her eyes. “We’ve been here for _hours_ and you haven’t had one drop of booze _and_ you haven’t danced at all.”

“Is that what this is called?” He asks mildly, gesturing to the undulating crowd. “As you learned already, I’m not a very skilled dancer.”

She pulls on his bowtie, watching it unravel around his neck. “I remember you doing just fine. Besides,” she scoffs, “most people out there can’t even stand on their own two feet. No one cares how well you dance, and certainly no one is going to remember tomorrow morning.”

Illya watches her, contemplative, and even through her foggy gaze she discerns how nicely he smells. She’s tempted to reach a little further, graze his evening stubble with her fingertips. If she had all her wits about her, she would likely capitalize on the fact they’re eye level again and that his mouth sits dangerously close.

Instead, she pouts in return. “One dance? A favor for a friend.”

“Alright,” he relents. “One dance.”

Gaby jumps to her feet, claps her hands. He chuckles as she grabs his fingers and tugs him onto the dance floor.

The band’s in the midst of an upbeat swing tune and she wriggles their way into the densest collection of bodies. Illya towers nearly a head over everyone else, and - barefoot - Gaby barely reaches his shoulders, but she’s determined that he enjoy himself. She twists and turns with the beat and eventually, to her delight, he rocks gently (awkwardly) on his heels with a hint of amusement on his face.

As the last trills of the drumroll ends, the pianist launches into an introductory cord that sends an approving murmur in response to the classic ballad that will wrap up the night. Illya has stilled, wide-eyed and startled at this change of pace.

“You can’t leave now,” Gaby whispers, holding tight onto his wrists. “It’s the last song.”

He nods his agreement and she takes a step forward, closing the already minimal space between their bodies. He seems to expect her to resume the position they’d practiced two nights (a lifetime) ago, but instead she simply circles her arms around his back and drops her cheek against his chest. He stiffens at their proximity, perhaps startled by the intimacy of this gesture, but his arms reach around her back as well and nestle to a stop at the base of her spine.

For the first time this weekend, his skin is searing through the thin silk of her dress, warming her from inside out.

They sway like this for what feels like hours, his chin tucked against the top of her head as his heartbeat strums steadily against her temple. And finally, as the last few notes fade into the nighttime air, they stop, without releasing one another as the guests clap around them. Gaby tilts back her neck and finds herself staring fully into Illya’s clear blue eyes.

Her own heart squeezes painfully and her throat catches as his hands slide slowly up her back, palms flat against her bare shoulders, and she’s never felt this type of burning desire before. Her head tips back further as his face swoops down, and her eyes instinctively close in anticipation for -

“One last shot for the road? There’s an afterparty three doors down.”

The moment disappears like lost hope and Gaby bites her lip to keep from crying. Solo has reappeared from the sand dunes, one arm slung over each of their shoulders. She seriously considers punching him in the face, but it would be a pity to risk wrecking his perfect nose.

Gaby swallows a groan and pushes a grin to her face. “Lead the way, Cowboy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay - but hopefully this and the epilogue make you happy!


	6. epilogue

Gaby finds herself curled against Illya, his chest pressed against her back with his heart beating steadily against her spine. She’s more hungover than she’s ever felt in her life, but it doesn’t stop her from noticing the time (eight a.m.) and the fact that for the first time this weekend, Illya is still in the bed when she wakes.

Her memory is spotted of (late) last night, with vague flashes of people on the dancefloor - including her Russian giant - and stumbling barefoot up the front steps into the hotel lobby. She’s fairly certain that she didn’t make it into their room on her own, and as she looks down at her sleeping ensemble, she recalls uncontrollable giggling as Illya patiently helps her out of her dress (with his eyes shut, no less) and into her pajamas.

She realizes, to her great amusement, that his feet are just as cold after a night under the covers, but his hands are warm where they sit on her stomach. His face is tucked into the curve of her neck and the intimacy feels effortless.

(She doesn’t remember the last time she felt this safe - or the last time she woke up next to someone in bed)

Her alarm trills after fifteen minutes, much to her sadness, and if Illya has any remorse over missing his daily morning run, he doesn’t show any signs of it. She waits as he comes to full consciousness, holding her breath as she detects the exact instant he comprehends how closely they’re entwined because his body freezes entirely, but he doesn’t release her until she begrudgingly reaches out to turn off the clock.

She packs slowly, her head still clouded with alcohol and music, as Illya buys her several large bottles of water and an aspirin back from the lobby shop downstairs. Solo also looks a bit worse for the wear, and Gaby doesn’t bother asking which wedding guest had the pleasure of accompanying him back to the hotel last night.

They pile into the rental car with one last glance out their hotel windows at the flawless blue sky and even bluer ocean. Though he’d be better suited in the passenger seat, Illya volunteers for the back row and Gaby clumbers in after him with a groan.

She’s fallen asleep before they even hit the freeway, forehead slouched against Illya’s side as his arm drapes casually over her shoulders.

The first time she snores, a soft whistle from her teeth, Solo looks behind him in surprise and jolts slightly at the scene. Illya - the sneaky bastard - is half-hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, but Solo detects the hint of a smile at the corners of the Russian’s lips.

They arrive in record time to the city on this early Monday holiday morning, where Gaby is taking the train back to Boston. She stirs awake just as Solo slips into a tight spot next to the curb in front of Penn Station, extracts herself from under Illya’s grasp for the second time that day.

“Successful weekend, I would venture,” Solo teases, as he wraps her in a tight embrace. “You can’t say that I don’t have your best interests at heart.”

“Smugness doesn’t agree with your complexion.” Gaby rolls her eyes. “Although I suppose I should thank you.”

“Anything for my favorite girl.” A wicked twinkle appears in his eye. “The more important question is - when will I be seeing you again?”

She sends a fist softly into his arm but shakes her head with a laugh. “Don't hold your breath.”

Illya’s standing on the sidewalk next to her luggage - including the bag holding her spectacular evening dress, which Illya had insisted she keep - with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His expression is pensive and almost somber as she approaches him, with her hands shaking and cheeks flushed.

“I enjoyed this weekend,” she tells him, suddenly shy and insecure in her words.

“As did I. I hope I did not disappoint you as your fiancé.”

“Not at all. I think everyone loved you.”

“I can think of at least four people who disapproved.” Illya pulls off his sunglasses and slides them onto the front collar of his shirt; his eyes crinkle from a smirk. "You can blame it on me, you know."

"What?"

"When we break up. You can tell everyone it was my fault. It is more believable that way."

She clears her throat; she had, in fact, forgotten the small detail that once the news of her fiancé returned to the work place, she'd have to explain herself both _in_ and _out_ of the engagement. "I'll think of a compelling story."

Gaby squirms slightly, unsure of how to proceed. She's slept beside this man and probably knows more about his past than anyone else on the planet, but they're not exactly _friends_ and any form of good-bye feels like both too much and too little.

Illya kicks at an invisible pebble on the ground. "Take care of yourself, Gaby."

Her stomach aches. "You too." She reaches for her luggage, dangerously close to tears, when she turns on her heel. “Here,” she whispers, pulling the ring off her finger, unprepared for the regret that surges through her. She rolls it between between her thumb and forefinger, just as he’d done during their first encounter. “I almost forgot to return this.”

He shakes his head, closes her hand over the ring. “You should keep it, as a souvenir.”

Her heart flutters pleasantly and she doesn’t pull away. “What about you? What’s your souvenir?”

“I met you.” The words are immediate and sincere, as if it’s the only answer he’d ever think to give. “That is enough.”

Her cheeks burn and she fears she may begin to cry. He’s still holding his fingers over hers, warm and calloused, and she recalls the sensation of him slipping on the ring for the first time.

She waits a beat. “How would you like another parting gift?”

Illya looks at her quizzically and, before he can ask her what she means (and before she loses her nerve), Gaby rises on her tip toes, pulls him down by the collar of his shirt, and kisses him.

He stills in surprise, and for a moment she fears that she’s made a terrible decision - but just as quickly his mouth melts under hers as she feels his entire body relax around her. He groans against her tongue, hands rising to cup each side of her face, and kisses her with the desire and confidence of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

She exhales quietly against his jaw, still catching her breath. He’s staring at her with wonderment in his eyes and her stomach flutters under the intensity of his gaze. She’s still gripping onto his arms, afraid that her legs will give out if she was to let go.

"You know," he suggests, voice teasing, "I've never been to Boston."

Solo honks from inside the car, a long drone followed by a series of smaller toots.

Gaby laughs, allows Illya to give her fingers one final squeeze. "You should give me a call if you visit."

*

He sends - via postal mail, not the internet - her a photo a few days later, one that he must have taken during their excursion to the Montauk Lighthouse. She’s standing barefoot on the shore boulders, body turned towards the ocean while she looks over her shoulder to face directly in the camera. Her hair is a mess, askew in the wind, but her mouth is open in a laugh and looks happy.

She doesn’t make it a month before booking a flight out to Chicago to see him. Illya picks her up from the airport with a bouquet of flowers, and she jumps into his arms with a firm kiss on his lips. His eyes widen slightly at the sight of a black pearl surrounding by diamonds - still on her left fourth finger - but he doesn’t address it further and buries his nose into the curve of her neck.

She stays at his place - beautifully decorated, with vintage mid-century modern pieces he’s flown in from across the country - and they act like tourists around the city. Solo joins them at Wrigley Field for beer and a Cubs game, and even though the home team loses she begrudgingly admits that she enjoys the afternoon.

The next month he visits her in Boston, where he accompanies her to a performance of Swan Lake and his hand finds hers in the darkness. She takes him on a drive to the Cape and they stop along the way at mostly-empty beach towns to enjoy cups of clam chowder and lobster rolls.

“He’s gone soft, you know,” Solo mentions casually, as if he’s discussing the weather. “As if he’s almost human.”

(Eventually, introducing him as her fiancé in public feels entirely natural and not at all far-fetched, not when she rests her hand against his thigh at dinner or when she sits with her feet in his lap while watching the evening news in her apartment.)

They spend as much time together as their schedules allow, sometimes in their respective cities, and sometimes on a spontaneous trip to explore a new city together. Somewhere between San Diego and Paris, they make love for the first time in a hotel room during a thunderstorm - and they scrap the rest of their plans and spend the rest of the weekend ordering room service.

At some point, Solo asks her again if she wants to meet with Waverly to see about a new opening in the automotives department.

(She takes him up on the offer, and is charmed by this amiable British man with a cheeky grin and enough money to buy up half of Africa.)

Two weeks after that, she turns in her resignation notice to Vinciguerra Industries and feels as if an anchor has been lifted off her shoulders.

Alex, to her amazement, drops by her office as she’s packing up her things; though they’ve crossed paths sporadically in the past year, they’ve only made fleeting, casual conversation.

“It feels like the end of an era, without your father or you at the company.”

She looks at him silently, takes in the model-good looks of this Italian billionaire who had once made her palms sweat. Now, she just sees an ordinary man trying to find his place in the world.

“Uncle Rudi is still there.”

“Not quite the same.” He chuckles and brushes his neck absently, as if remembering the time Illya had threatened his airway. “You know, when you brought the Russian to my wedding, I could have sworn the whole thing was a farce.”

“And now?”

“And now I’m losing you both to an ogre and to my biggest competitor. Feels like a double punch in the gut.”

She thinks about confessing that his wedding was the stimulus that brought them together. Instead, Gaby smiles sweetly and feigns innocence. “It’s funny how things work out, isn’t it?”

She forfeits her apartment lease and sells her furniture (it had never really felt like ‘home’, anyway) and moves in with Illya, where they fight over the covers (though she usually uses him for warmth), Solo drops in unexpectedly but has the good sense to bring a bottle of wine with him each time, and the three of them help send Waverly to the moon in his private spaceship by the end of the calendar year.

The following spring, as they’re vacationing in South America, Illya proposes under the shadow of the _moai_ at sunset, down on one knee with a dazzling diamond solitaire. She cries and screams yes, the wind picking up her joy and carrying it across the oceans, into the ears of whoever might be listening.

(She still wears her original engagement ring, on a thin silver chain around her neck, and whenever someone asks her how she and Illya met, their eyes meet with secret smile and one of them starts with, “Well, it’s the _funniest_ thing…”)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for making this journey with me! much love for all the lovely compliments and kudos. i'm still keeping my fingers crossed for a finished kiss on screen. xoxo.

**Author's Note:**

> whew! i have never written for a movie fandom before, which is much more challenging because there's much less material from which to flesh out the characters, but there's something about these two that make me want all the au! storylines to happen (probably because i'm still angst-ing over all those unfinished kisses). you'll see hints of the movie scattered throughout (e.g. dialogue), and in no way do i claim them as my own.
> 
> disclaimer: as always, i do not own the characters. this is purely for fun and i am making no profit.


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